With eight dollars in his pocket, after purchasing his railroad ticket,
Bully Carson climbed aboard the express.
He did not go into a Pullman, for that would cost more money. Instead,
he sauntered up to the smoking car, rolling a cigarette as he went. For
this occasion he had abandoned his “swellest” clothes, being simply
clad in a black-and-white, shiny-buttoned suit that shrieked aloud, a
plain orange-and-white necktie, and a pair of patent-leather shoes with
green uppers. Bully desired to avoid all prominence during his stay in
Fardale, and so had picked out his meekest raiment for the trip.
He found the smoking car fairly well filled, and with his mind still
occupied with the subject of raising some money with which to bet for
himself, he dropped into a seat beside a small, dried-up little man.
Now, there are many people who gauge other people’s importance by their
clothes, and who do so without any regard for taste. Ezra Hostetter had
run a laundry all his life, and he was the simplest-hearted person that
ever ironed a collar. Being of extremely dull taste as regarded his
own attire, he entertained an unlimited admiration for those fortunate
men who could afford and carry off gorgeous apparel with perfect ease.
Consequently, he directed one startled glance at Bully’s glorious
harmony of colors, and was lost. With honest longing stamped on his
face, he directed sly but highly admiring side looks that feasted on
everything from the green-topped shoes to the scarlet-and-blue hatband
incasing Bully’s purple felt hat.
To be sure, the eye patch slightly detracted from Bully’s appearance.
Ezra Hostetter began to swell with importance at sitting next this
ornate personage. Possibly it was a prize fighter, or, at the very
least, a follower of sports!
Not being a judge of character, the little man stole further worshiping
glances as Bully grandly lighted his cigarette and snapped the match
away. Being an excellent judge of character and delighting in posing,
Bully was not slow to detect the point-blank admiration of his
seatmate, and to delight in it.
“Fine weather, ain’t it?” he remarked condescendingly. “Goin’ to
Fardale?”
Ezra Hostetter jumped, then stammered out an overjoyed assent:
“Yes, I’m going to buy a laundry there, Mr.---- Mr.----”
“Carson,” prompted Bully, settling his thumbs in his vest and leaning
back. “Ed Carson, of Carsonville. I’m glad to meet you, Mr.----”
“Hostetter, Ezra Hostetter,” said the dried-up little laundryman.
Bully positively basked during the next few moments. He had had little
opportunity to do any basking around home, of late, and the chance was
too good to be missed. And since he could also be very genial when
he chose, he soon fell into a conversation with Hostetter which was
extremely pleasant on both sides.
He did not uncase his splendor all at once, however. Having seen the
simplicity of his companion’s heart, he began to take a keen delight in
letting him discover his grandeur by degrees.
It seemed that Hostetter had heard of Colonel Carson, and, upon
discovering that he was talking with that famous man’s son, his
admiration eclipsed all bounds. After a little he ventured a timid
query as to Bully’s profession.
“I’m a ball player,” announced Bully, with quiet dignity. “Not a
professional, y’ understand, though I may consider an offer from the
Giants this summer.”
This was the final straw. Poor Hostetter, blinded by the limitations
of his own experience, carried away by the glamour of Bully’s
wondrous raiment, positively groveled. And Bully continued to bask in
open-mouthed admiration of the other, until it occurred to him that he
had better account for his black eye.
“I got this in my last game,” and he lightly touched the patch. “I was
pitching, and the batter hit out a liner at me. I tried to stop it, but
the ball broke through my hands and struck my eye. Even so, I caught it
before it reached the ground, and so won the game.”
He reeled off this fabrication with amazing ease. Across the aisle was
seated a man who had got on at Carsonville, and who knew nothing of how
Bully had really obtained that injured optic. He grinned, and nudged
the man beside him. Bully did not notice it, however.
Presently the conversation became even more personal. Bully discovered
that his companion was proceeding to Fardale to invest in a laundry
there, which was for sale. After a cautious glance around, Hostetter
pulled forth a long black wallet and opened it out.
“Look at this!” he exclaimed proudly, anxious to prove to the great man
that he, too, had symptoms of nobility. “There’s a thousand dollars in
cash--in cash, mind you! I’m going to buy that laundry with it.”
Bully leaned over. At sight of the ten hundred-dollar bills his senses
reeled, and sparks danced before his eyes. A thousand dollars in cash!
“By glory!” he gasped inwardly. “If I only had that much, what a
clean-up I’d make on this Fardale game!”
He was more cautious in expressing his thoughts aloud, however.
“Why didn’t you get a draft? You could ’a’ cashed it at Fardale in the
morning. Ain’t you afraid some one will hold you up?”
“It’s kind o’ risky,” admitted the little man, replacing the wallet.
“But I don’t like to trust to banks, Carson. I had a bank bust on me
once, in Chicago, and I ain’t never going to trust ’em again. I guess
no one’s going to hold me up, though.”
Bully pulled down his hat over his eyes. He knew that they were
glittering covetously, and he desired to hide the glitter from his
companion.
A thousand dollars in cash! The words drove through his brain over and
over, and fitted themselves into a refrain that chimed with the click
and clatter of the wheels underneath him.
He had visions of himself nonchalantly sauntering through the grand
stand, waving those hundred-dollar bills and petrifying the Fardale
fans with his grandeur. The more he thought it over, the more the idea
appealed to him, and the more he mentally condemned his father for a
tightwad.
“He’s just rolling in money,” he thought sullenly, “and here I am
almost without a cent! I’ll have to run close to the wind to make this
eight dollars last me, at that. If I only had that thousand in cash, I
guess I’d cut a swath in Fardale!”
Bitter and black thoughts filled his mind during the remainder of the
journey. Little by little his mind edged to the conviction that he was
a badly injured person, and that he was quite justified in resenting
the injury in any manner possible. After all, he had warned his father
quite fairly that he intended to raise some money, and if his father
refused to take the warning--so much the worse for him!
“What hotel do you patronize here, Mr. Carson?” asked Hostetter, as the
train was pulling into Fardale.
“Me?” responded Bully, with careless magnificence. “Oh, I usually
frequent the Dobbs Hotel. Are you going there?”
“Well--well, to tell the truth, I--I think I will,” said Hostetter. “It
ain’t expensive?”
Bully grinned to himself, fingering his eight dollars.
“Not ’specially so. I’d be glad to have your company, old man.”
“Thank you!” and the other glanced about nervously. “You see, Carson,
I’d feel a little bit safer if I had a friend in the vicinity. Of
course there’s no danger, only I can’t transact my business till the
morning, and----”
“Give your money to the hotel proprietor,” suggested Bully.
“Not me! I’ll keep it right on me all the time, and if I lose it, it’s
my own fault. I wouldn’t trust any hotel man that ever lived!”
“Well, I dunno’s you’re wrong,” said Bully, nodding sagely. “Come
along--we’ll get supper at a restaurant, if you like, then go up to the
hotel.”
At this proposal the little man fluttered with conscious pride. They
left the train and entered a restaurant together. Here, Bully found
that his raiment created a sensation, that was highly soothing to his
spirits. After supper they went to the Dobbs Hotel and registered,
being given rooms directly across the hall from each other.
Bully Carson had already sent a message to Randall, informing him of
his arrival and stating that he wanted to see him that evening at the
hotel. He knew that his cousin would have little difficulty in evading
the academy regulations about being out of the grounds after taps.
However, Bully’s thoughts were still running on that thousand dollars
in cash. Reaching his room before Hostetter arrived, for the latter
had paused to telephone the men with whom he was to do business, Bully
covertly took the key from his own door and tried it in that across the
hall.
The key worked both locks!
A few moments later the little man arrived at the room which had been
assigned to him. He soon came over and knocked on Carson’s door,
entering with a worried expression on his face.
“The bolt on my door is broken,” he exclaimed. “Do you think it’ll be
quite safe there, or had I better get another room?”
“Oh, you’re all right,” Bully said carelessly. “Lock the door and put
the key in your pocket--don’t leave it in the door, or it can be turned
from outside. Then shove that wallet under your pillow, and you’re
safer’n if you was locked up in a vault. It’s a cinch, old man!”
“Well, I’ll take your advice,” said Hostetter, with a relieved air.
“Much obliged to you, I’m sure!”
Saying good night, he vanished. Bully could hear him lock his door and
withdraw the key.
Carson sat smoking until the room was so full of smoke that he was
forced to open the window, much against his will. A thousand dollars in
cash! The words seemed to burn into his brain. He walked up and down,
trying to fling off the black thoughts that filled him, but finally he
paused and brought down one fist on the table.
“I’ll do it!”
At that instant there came a soft knock at the door. Bully started, and
swung around. The door opened.
“Oh, it’s you!” he cried, and laughed a little. “Come in, Bob. I was
waiting for you.”